


The Admonishment of Rouge Tears

by Celleti



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Is He Dead or Is He Alive?, Perpetrator For Reader Interpretration, The Admonishment of Rouge Tears, Unknown Perpetrator, Victim North Italy, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:07:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24410044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celleti/pseuds/Celleti
Relationships: n/a





	The Admonishment of Rouge Tears

The blood ebbed and flowed, in motions purely signalling departure— the promise of return that the tides brought was entirely absent.

A man lay on terra cotta tiled floor, his body brimming with injurious words that ached perhaps more than his leaking wounds themselves. The physique was slim, with nothing out of place; if anything, what made the person noticeable was his face. It was sweet, with twinkling hazel eyes that asked questions in the dark. Curious eyes, they were. _”What’s going to happen next?”_ His neck was like hard dough. There was a dressing down of smooth brown hair atop the form’s pate, with bangs parted in the middle, waving to each other. To top it off, there was skin lightly basted in tan colour, tan that presented itself only when washed alight; the skin was otherwise roughly beige, cresting what lay underneath expertly.

What lay there, indeed, was a man with glinting features, although at present, he was a far cry from such.

The skin that so skilfully guarded the man’s internal possessions was punctured, hurt, with weeping, thick, rouge tears that spilt over with decisive weight, pressing into the baked consistency of the tile. His eyes- the eyes that had twinkled in the dark- no longer asked curious questions. They were jaded, trodden; they demanded answers in anguish. His hair was clotted with dampness, stuck together by the substance that dutifully trundled out of his body. His complexion was no longer lightly awash with semblances of tan colour. A steadily lightening paste hue now clung to it, vanishing the visual splotches of health from his face.

The scene was one that whispered deafeningly of betrayal. Out of the corners of the room it crawled, wading through the drainage of rouge tears and marching over the sprawled figure. It came to rest densely on the various lacerations that splintered the man’s body, the source of all that now settled into the pores of the tile, of which bore the stream the atmosphere waded in.

The betrayal was not still; it squirmed on the surface of the terra cotta, on the barely breathing shell of a man, in the pools of rouge tears, and in the layering air. It permeated the atmosphere sharply, and tellingly, it was fresh. The betrayal, sly as it was, had slipped through the cracks in the floor, weaselled its way through the door, and pierced the fallen man nearly as devastatingly as weapon itself had.

It was accompanied by its brother, deception. Deception was louder, rustling the room with the sound of crumbling façades and marked phrases.

Betrayal and deception were a duo, partners in crime who usually bounced merrily in the closet until they became too loud to be explained or hushed away.

On this occasion, they had been let free of the closet, practically instructed to run amok and then set the air alight with themselves. 

The story lay not with betrayal and deception, yet at the same time it did— the pillars of it relied on them, innocuously unaware that betrayal and deception made for poor foundations.

The foundation had crumbled into ash in the hours of the day that were already long evaporated, undone by spindles of a sort of love and the cards of fate that flashed too soon.

The man who had been befell had loved the man whose façade had been fated to unravel.

The man with the façade had it for a reason, a reason that had cloaked itself unceremoniously over the man brimming with love, drowning him with shards of a mask in shambles.

And yet, the match that had lit the bonfire damning their house of cards to burning was but a spark, a spark ignited by the joining of lips.

Then, the façade had drawn a knife, slicing the mask in two before bathing the floor-embracing man in lesions of both the physical and mental arrangement.

**”All this time, I’ve thought you too clumsy.”**

**”Too hyper.”**

_**”Too...stupid.”** _

_**”Too...lazy.”** _

_**”Most of all, you served a purpose no greater than that of a political ally.”** _

He had leaned down after his victim was truly on the ground, befalling the words to injure from invisible trees. His prey was already covered in wounds, but what would a few more do but cinch it all together oh so nicely?

The predator muttered in his native tongue to the suffering man.

The man on the ground’s untouched face contorted. 

The pain inducer gave a perilous smirk, a stretch of sadistic tape that stuck to his mouth tightly, clinging and refusing to let go.

He pressed the steel of a pocket knife into the soft, formerly smooth complexion of a man that was already riddled with abrasions.

He led it along like a dog on a lead, down to his neck, eyes gleaming with hunger all the way.

It, like some of the other gashes, were more for sentimental value than practicality.

The injury-inflicting man, when his final infliction had come to an end, bid betrayal and deception adieu, before leaving.

If you were there to witness him leave, you would observe the gleeful expression on his face.

The victim was left to himself, betrayal and deception squirming over him as he was barely able to breathe. The pores in his body leaked rouge tears. He was pained inexorably, yet at the same time he was numb.

There was one thing for certain amidst all that graced the scene unpleasantly.

If the fallen man were even to live, he would need much more than stitches.


End file.
